


Running Interference

by Sundapple



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is definitely a competent super-spy, Crowley is either way better or way worse at this, Fluff, Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), may have been Gabriel's idea of a joke, trees are not to be trusted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 06:28:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19245691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sundapple/pseuds/Sundapple
Summary: Sometimes, the will of Heaven requires that miracles be done.Sometimes, those miracles are downrightinconvenient.





	Running Interference

**Author's Note:**

> There are many things at which Aziraphale is terrifyingly competent. This is not one of them.

The forces of Heaven like to pride themselves on their efficiency. The war rooms, elegantly furnished in cream and dove gray, contain databases (once kept on scrolls, but since upgraded to sleek wall-mounted interfaces) of every angel in the heavenly host. Each holy warrior is accounted for in exacting detail—not only their history and current assignment, but also their skill evaluations, psych profile, performance reviews, budget reports, preferred corporeal forms, personal memos...

Well, frankly, it’s gotten a little out of hand. And so, while the directors of the divine effort do _like_ to pride themselves on their masterful assignment of personnel, in actual practice those orders often have more to do with which file happened to be, as it were, at the top of the stack. 

Sometimes this leads to moments of astonishing brilliance, such as the discovery in 1983 that the angel Famariel had a supernatural knack for billiards. 

Other times, well. Let us simply say that, on occasion, the heavenly host just has to make do. 

* * *

“Crowley? What in Heaven’s name are you doing here?” 

“Oi, keep it down, would you?” Crowley hissed as he ducked behind a reassuringly-sturdy young oak. In the process, he cracked his skull on a similarly-sturdy young branch. 

He rubbed his temple and scowled reproachfully at the tree, before turning his disapproval to a disheveled Aziraphale crouching uncomfortably in a mound of rhododendrons. “The last thing we need is any of your lot turning an eye down here. Listen, do you have the fireworks already, or were you planning to miracle them up when you got there?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes widened slightly. “How do you—Look, I don’t have time for your games right now. I, ” he paused a moment to tug his coat free of a particularly-aggressive stem, “am on official business! And the less I know about your superior’s plans to _interfere_ with it, the better.” 

“Oh, none of that, now, I just happened to intercept this batch of orders myself. Lower management’s none the wiser.” Crunching footsteps sounded from a few meters ahead; Crowley craned his neck to peer around the trunk of his backstabbing tree and just barely caught a glimpse of black suits and overpriced sunglasses. He ducked back down before the two figures could turn his way. “I have to ask, who on earth decided to assign _you_ to a low-miracle job? Have they _met_ you?” 

“And just what is that supposed to mean? I’ll have you know that I am perfectly capable of acting with care when the occasion demands—” Aziraphale tugged his jacket again, but this time the stem broke with a startling _crack_. Both he and Crowley froze, gazes flicking towards the suits. The footsteps paused, and then began to draw closer. 

Just as Aziraphale tensed in anticipation of discovery, there was a faint _click_ , followed by an explosion of flapping and raucous caws. Two sleek crows erupted from the trees behind them and rushed past, the clatter of heavy wingbeats mingling with a string of curses as Suit One and Suit Two both backpedaled, shielding their faces and then turning away in disgust. 

Aziraphale settled back into position, then glanced over to see Crowley leaning against his tree, one hand still in the air in snapping position, eyebrows raised over his sunglasses. He sighed. “All right, perhaps I’m not the _best_ suited to infiltration, but, well, we’ve been stretched a bit thin lately—no help from your people, I might mention—and if this is what’s needed, I’ll just have to do it, won’t I?” 

Crowley snorted as he turned to put his back to the tree. “Not if you get caught by a couple humans in monkey suits, you won’t. Look, we both know how much fun your stint in prison was last time, but let’s avoid having there be a _this_ time, shall we? Otherwise I’ll have to tend the bookshop again, and it’ll be awfully upsetting for your orchid collection.” 

Aziraphale opened his mouth to argue, then hesitated. He had just gotten in a particularly lovely _Dendrobrium_ …He settled instead for picking a few spruce needles out of his sleeve. _Dreadfully_ prickly. “Well, what did you have in mind?” 

“I’m assuming you’ve already taken care of the electronic system?” 

“Yes, thank you, I can still manage _some_ low-impact miracles. It’s the humans that are the problem here. I thought they’d be, well…less attentive.” 

“All right then, that’s settled.” Crowley rolled his neck with a crack and moved to stand. “See you in a few weeks. Oh, pick up the Bentley from the front, would you? It’s always a pain to get it back from impoundment.” 

“Crowley what are you—” Aziraphale gaped as Crowley unfolded to his full height, weaving awkwardly to avoid another traitorous branch. “Crowley!” he hissed. 

Crowley stepped out from behind his tree. “Just giving them something to attend to!” 

And, as Aziraphale stared blankly, he lurched forward in a waltzing stagger to crash through the undergrowth with gleeful abandon, raising his voice in a stirringly slurred rendition of “Save Me”. 

As his voice drifted farther away and was joined by the shouts of Suits One and Two, along with a renewed cacophony of derisive cawing, Aziraphale was left contemplating the newly-calm little clearing around the empty oak. He straightened carefully, gingerly extricating himself from the shrubs. 

“Well, I’ll just…I’ll be on my way, then,” he said to the rhododendrons. “Thank you for your discretion—”

Another branch cracked under his foot. He looked down, sighed, and moved it to a clear patch of ground. “Oh, why bother.” 

He strode off into the greenery, accompanied only by the distant, joyful echoes of demonic laughter. 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, it's official - the Good Omens TV adaptation has managed to drag me into actual, proper (if short) fic-writing. May god have mercy on my productivity.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, feedback appreciated if you feel so inclined.


End file.
